


Sunflowers

by butterflychansan



Series: Wisteria [5]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Fluff, Kids, M/M, Marriage, Modern AU, Pure Unadulterated Fluff, Some angst, Wedding, Wisteria verse, after Wisteria, cop Jean, dumb boys, florist Marco, no longer trapped in the closet heh, nothing but happiness, one shots, we're here noodles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-20
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-16 09:49:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1343074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterflychansan/pseuds/butterflychansan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU, sequel to Forget Me Not and Wisteria. </p><p>A series of one shots starting two years after the events of Wist, chronicling Jean and Marco's life together -- ups, downs, fluffiest fluffs and warmest moments, friends and families and two boys who know each other too well, finding themselves finally -- FINALLY -- happy.</p><p>Sunflowers stand by themselves; they turn their faces towards the warmth and become their own brightness, their own personal sun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. December 1st

**Author's Note:**

> The douchy cop brigade does No Shave November every year so they can have an even worse moustache competition on December first. This year, Marco decides to join in.
> 
> Marco's POV.

His footsteps on the stairs are always mismatched. It’s been two and a half years since the shooting, and he walks, he runs, he swims, he bikes sometimes with Connie. But Jean still feels the pain on the stairs; he still favors his right leg over his left.

Even from the back room, I hear him come down the steps from the apartment and into the shop, one heavy boot landing a little louder and stiffer than the other.

“Sweetheart,” Jean calls from the front, “I’m leaving for work.”

I give him a second, rustling invoices for flower orders on my desk. Then I lean forward in my chair and say, “back here.”

I let him come to me. I let him stand still in the shop for a moment, because I know he’s setting his jaw and taking a deep breath, dealing with the pain. I let him do it without me in the room, because he doesn’t want me to worry. I expect him to still be frowning when he appears in the doorway--

But I can’t really tell, because of his full, scruffy blonde beard.

Damn it, No Shave November. Do you know how difficult it is to communicate with Jean Kirschtein already, and now I can’t read his expression?

Jean leans in the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest, watching me like he does with those tawny eyes.

I smile at him. “C’mere. Let me rub my face on you.”

Jean wrinkles his nose, and I know he’s ok. 

I rub at my jaw, my own beard thicker and darker and more grown out than his. The fiance narrows his eyes at me, and half of me wants to laugh because he feels like I beat him in some unspoken beard competition, when it was his idea to do it in the first place.

The other part of me can’t get enough of him leaning in the doorway with his uniform like that, and when he comes over to me, my heart catches a little in my chest. Jean’s hand curls under my chin and tips my head back.

I kiss him soft. His beard is coarse and ticklish against mine. And then I pull away, just a breath, just far enough that his lips still linger. I can still taste the toothpaste and the coffee and my man.

And then I grab Jean’s cheek with my hand and viciously rub the side of my scruffy face on his, cackling with laughter.

“What the-- hell-- I’m gonna-- catch on fire if you keep fuckin’ doing that.” Jean plants a firm, aggravated kiss on the top of my head. “You’re shaving that goddamned thing off today.”

“I can’t,” I tell him, grinning. “You’ll miss it too much.”

Jean shoots me a dirty look from the doorway.

“You have to get in on the Douchey December Moustache competition this year,” he reminds me. “You wouldn’t do it last year.”

“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings,” I say.

The edge of Jean’s mouth twitches up in a smirk. “Why, because you think you can beat me? You think you can douchey moustache better than me, Bodt? I always win. I am the biggest douche.” 

“I don’t think so.”

“You wanna bet--”

I wait for him to realize what he said. And when he does, he surprises me, and that smirk at the corner of his lips turns into a full blown grin.

I still get surprised by that, sometimes. By how happy Jean is. 

I can’t stop looking at him. I don’t want him to go, even if it is for work.

Jean narrows his eyes at me again as he hovers in the doorway, his smile now a challenge.

“Alright, Bodt,” he says. “That’s it. You, me, Douchey Moustache Showdown.”

“And Connie and Bert and Reiner,” I remind him.

“Yeah, yeah. They’re weak. You and me, babe.”

“Game on,” I say, rubbing my beard.

“I’m gonna destroy you.”

I snort. “In your goddamned dreams. Bye, honey.”

Jean raises his hand in a wave as he turns away. I hear the bells go on the front door of the shop, and rub my beard again, my thoughts trailing.

 

*

I try. I really do.

I try to think of a douchey moustache that is less... douchey. Maybe somewhat respectable. I don’t wanna put the smackdown on Jean, not when he’s so proud of his fluffy beard.

But really. He wants me to compete.

I’m Italian. We invented thick hair. It’s not even a question.

No, the real question is-- how do you compete best with douchey-moustachio’d cops?

You out-cop them.

I take the chance when the shop is quiet, mid-morning right before the lunch rush. I leave the front door of our apartment open at the top of the stairs, so I can hear if any customers come, but the door bells are quiet while I shave. 

I’m careful. The razor is smooth and cool against my cheek. I’m gonna miss not having to worry about doing this every few days. I’m gonna miss waking up next to Mountain Man. 

But the look on Jean’s face will be totally worth it.

I keep the picture I printed out for reference taped to the mirror while I shave.

 

*

 

My cellphone vibrates in the pocket of my apron an hour later.

“D’you do it yet?” Jean asks over the phone, his mouth full of a sandwich.

I hear Connie in the background. “Tell him to get a chin strap.”  
“It’s not a chin strap,” I laugh, holding the phone between my shoulder and my ear, twisting my fingers into a bouquet of roses. “Con, what did you do?”

“Oh,” Connie says, closer to the phone. “I just shaved off enough so Henry didn’t have anything to grab onto anymore-- hey!”

There’s a distinct sound of a dull slap, and Jean cuts him off. “It’s a secret, god damn it. You have to wait until the unveiling later.”

“What, is there a specific procedure here?” I had stayed out of it last year, I don’t remember.

“Hell yeah there is,” Connie says, his voice farther away from the phone.

“Yeah,” Jean replies firmly. “We’ve been doing it like this since college.”

I’m silent for a beat. It always takes me a second to remember that he doesn’t mean the college with me. 

And Jean knows that. After a second, I hear the shuffling of the phone, and Jean’s voice is low in my ear.

“Marco baby,” he says softly. 

“Hmm?”

“I can’t wait to marry you.”

I smile slightly. “Hmm.”

It helps to hear stuff like this. It does. But what helps more is knowing that he’s saying it in front of Connie, in front of one of his hetero friends, and the only reason he’s embarrassed is because he’s private about showing emotion like this. 

Old habits die hard, and three years later, I still struggled sometimes not to feel like I had to hide. Like he was going to leave. This was my pain I carried, this was the equivalent to his heavy footsteps coming down the stairs.

So it helps.

It helps when I hear him smile, and he says it again.

“I can’t wait,” Jean murmurs.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, feeling my face flush red. “You’re just buttering me up so I won’t out-moustache you.”

“Pfffft.”

“You’re scared. You’re scared of my stache powers.”

 

*

 

The shop is quiet today, but I’m thankful. The most common thing I get up here is orders for weddings, and aside from Valentine’s Day, late fall and early winter is my busiest time; everyone loves outdoor weddings in the mountain foliage, you know what I mean? It’s really beautiful. It’s also a lot of time, and a lot of late nights. A quiet shop means some time to catch up. 

I like them. I like the weddings. I like these themed flowers, bucket after bucket of the same soft colors. I like spending late nights in this shop, with the lights warm inside and the street quiet after the sunset.

I like that I am home, and at work, and I can’t tell the difference.

I like Jean in basketball shorts and my old college hoodie, wandering downstairs with his hair still wet from showering after he gets home from work. I like that he brings two bowls of mac n cheese down with him. I like him in my space, slouched on the floor with his back against the counter, nudging himself room between the buckets of flowers with his bare toes. I like it because it’s our space, and Jean blushes and rubs the back of his neck whenever we talk about our wedding flowers.

The shop is quiet today, which is why I notice every single time a squad car drives, so casually slow, past the shop.

I turn my back to the windows as soon as I see it, every time.

I don’t care if it’s not him. I’m not taking the risk. I turn my face away.

Nothing is ruining my moustache game.

 

*

I am in the back room again, hauling bags of soil from the supply cooler, when the bells ring out over the door at a little after six, and I hear Connie’s laughter.

And then, clear as day -- the low, rough voice Jean gets when he’s either competing to win something, or about to get laid.

“Where is he?” I hear him ask. “Marco?”

I’m already grinning to myself, but decide to play it cool. Cute and sweet. Don’t let him suspect. 

I hover in the doorway, just out of sight, and call, “hey guys.”

It has exactly the intended effect. Jean’s thrown off-guard, and he’s already laughing to himself in the front part of the shop.

“You didn’t do it, did you?” Jean’s voice is dripping with satisfaction. “Knew it. You didn’t want to have--”

He stops dead, mid-sentence, when he sees me. I lean in the doorway, crossing my arms over my chest and raising my eyebrows.

Connie snorts, leaning against the counter and sporting an impressively obnoxious chin strap. “Oh my god, that’s awesome.”

Jean’s eyes widen as he stares at me. He’s shaved his beard into the most carefully cultivated handlebar moustache I have ever seen. It’s the kind of thing you seriously judge yourself for, because it’s gross and weird and vaguely paternal but you still find it hot.

Or at least, I do.

I mean, it’s Jean.

He’s gaping at me, a mixture of challenge and surprise and outrage and... oh yeah, he’s turned on. 

I smile innocently at him. Mhmm. Oh yeah, boy. I know you.

Jean’s face blushes a dark red, making his handlebar stand out even more.

“I can’t believe,” he says slowly, “you Tom Selleck’d.”

“It’s a masterpiece,” Connie adds with a grin.

I wipe my hands on my apron and run my fingers over my moustache, the thick dark hair tapering down in a straight line to the corners of my mouth. 

Jean’s handlebar sags when he frowns. He crosses the length of the counter and takes my face in his hands; I think for a second that he’s going to kiss me, but he holds me at arms’ length and examines my face. I let him do it, patient, trying not to smirk at him.

The longer he looks at me, the madder he gets.

And the madder he gets, the more turned on he gets.

And this makes him even madder.

“I can’t believe you gave yourself the typical cop look,” he grumbles through his moustache. “How did you... Why the-- fucking-- oh god damn it, Marco.”

And that’s how I know. I grin, and kiss his smooth cheek. 

“Does this mean I win?” I ask when he lets go of me.

“I vote for you,” Connie offers, leaning up against the counter.

Jean whips around to glare at him. “You’re not even gonna try to beat him?”

“Look at this asshole,” Connie says reasonably. “Look at that Tom Selleck moustache. You tell me how I’m supposed to compete with that.”

“I did a Tom Selleck two years ago,” Jean says, outraged. “You didn’t think it was so great then.”

“Yeah, but you blonde Tom Selleck’d,” Connie replies.

“So?”

“It’s not the same.”

“It’s not th-- are you fucking kidding me Con--”

“Can I pet it?” Connie asks me. “Can I literally pet your moustache, dude?”

I think for a second Jean will explode with anger. His handlebar is twitching. Whether he’s angry that another guy wants to touch me, or just angry that his blonde Selleck didn’t cut it-- I don’t wait to ask. I just wrap my arms around his waist from behind, pressing my palms flat to his chest. It’s like therapy to him, a reminder to take a deep breath, and Jean leans into my grip for a moment. 

I kiss his neck, and suddenly, he’s angry again; Jean glares at me over his shoulder, and the handlebar makes it look even worse. 

“Get away from me with that thing,” he grumbles, giving my moustache a deadly glare. “Wait until Reiner and Bert see it, I swear to god, I’m gonna crush you.”

“You don’t have to be so competitive,” I croon in his ear. Just to make him madder. Just to watch him do what I know he’s gonna do. “It’s just for fun, baby.”

Jean pushes my hands roughly away, muttering about fun and competition and Tom Selleck, stomping his way up the stairs to our apartment with Connie and still muttering furiously to himself... before he realizes.

And then I hear them. The mismatched steps, slower and less certain than before, one foot a little heavier than the other. 

Jean reappears at the foot of the stairs behind the counter and looks at me sheepishly. His face is still red with anger when he comes back to me, pulling me toward him with one hand on my waist and kissing my cheek. His handlebar tickles my smooth-shaven face.

“Hi,” Jean grumbles.

“Hi,” I reply, smiling wide. He always does this.

“I’m still mad,” he asserts.

Even when he’s mad, he still kisses me whenever he comes home.

“I told you I didn’t want to hurt your feelings,” I say to him lightly.

“Oh, are you fuckin’--” Jean lets go of me, steaming all over again, going up the stairs and still yelling about Tom Selleck, and I have never been prouder of the fact that I’m about to marry this complete loser, because he compliments my own loserness so damn well.

 

*

 

The skype call with Reiner and Bert does not go well. They appear on the display of Jean’s laptop after a few seconds of dialing, and Jean and Connie hover over the screen waiting to see them. I stay out of vision a few steps away, biding my time.

The two in New York sit shoulder to shoulder, looking down at the screen, especially in Bert’s case. Reiner sports thick, light blonde lamb chops with an edge that points right at his mouth on each of them; Bert has shaved his to a thin pencil moustache like a thirties’ movie star, with long sideburns that disappear into the hem of his grey beanie. 

As soon as the image of them is clear, Jean grins. “I totally fucking win.”

“I told you he’d go for a handlebar,” I hear Reiner say. “He always handlebars.”

Jean is outraged again, about to launch into an explanation of all the different styles he’s tried over the years, when Connie cuts him off.

“Marco wins,” he says firmly. “Jean’s being a pissbaby.”

“I am not being a pissbaby--”

“What’s Marco’s look like?” Bert asks.

I shuffle behind the two at our kitchen table and wave at the camera, as innocent as I can. “Hey dudes.”

Reiner and Bert are both silent for a minute before Bert lifts his hand to wave back.

“That,” Reiner says, “is a breathtaking moustache.”

Jean sighs. “Oh, god fucking damn it.”

“Somewhere,” Reiner says, “Tom Selleck is shedding a tear. Beautiful. I vote Marco.”

“Marco,” Bert agrees, running one long finger across his moustache.

“Are you guys kidding me?” Jean interrupts. “I did a Tom Selleck two years ago.”

“You attempted a Tom Selleck,” Reiner corrects him, his voice deep in the speakers. “But you can’t blonde a Selleck. It doesn’t work.”

“Thank you,” chimes in Connie.

I put my hands on Jean’s shoulders and squeeze, but I can tell he’s not really mad. I can tell by the way he keeps talking to his friends, friends that watch me with him and don’t say a thing. I can tell by the way he doesn’t shrug away from me, or try to explain away why I’m touching him.

It’s been two and a half years. And it’s been eight and a half years since he did anything like that. But still. It helps. It helps that we can do this. That we’re doing this right now.

It helps when Jean reaches up for one of my hands on his shoulder and covers it with his own while he talks, his thumb unconsciously grazing my knuckles until he finds the engagement band on my finger. Then he squeezes my hand, right in the same moment that he calls Reiner a false prophet of lambchops.

I don’t let go of him. No matter what, I don’t let go.

 

*

 

It’s nearly one in the morning by the time Connie’s gone home and I finish cleaning up the kitchen from dinner. I haze my way into the bedroom, turning off lights as I go. I used to leave half of my lights on all the time, but when you live with a cop, you don’t have to worry as much, you know what I’m saying?

Except my cop is sprawled out on the bed, one arm folded over his eyes, half asleep and still wearing his boots. I sit down at his feet and untie his laces; he only lifts his arm up to look at me when I tug one boot off, then the other, as gently as I can. 

“Please baby,” I say to him. “Please go shave that thing off.”

Jean lifts his arm and runs his fingers down his handlebar. “No.”

“C’mon, I shaved mine...”

Jean folds his arm over his eyes again. “I’m keeping it just to piss you off. I’m getting married with this bad boy on.”

The thought grosses me the hell out. All I saw was him with wedding cake stuck in his moustache.

Jean laughs softly to himself at the look on my face. I lay down next to him on the bed, sinking into the mattress with a deep sigh of relief. 

“Congratulations on your win,” Jean mumbles.

“May we have many more years where the worst thing you’re angry about is my moustache,” I say softly.

This gets him. This unfolds his arm from his face, and this is what makes him come to me. Jean rolls over and reaches up, stroking my hair back with one hand. He runs his fingers over my lips, and the clean-shaven part above my top lip especially. When he touches my mouth again, I kiss his fingertips.

The look in Jean’s eyes is warm and sweet and intense, the way he always looks at me. I want to kiss him. I want to do a lot of things to him.

It’s just.

It’s just the moustache.

“Is it really that bad?” Jean asks, laughing at the expression on my face. 

“I feel like I’m about to make out with my middle school math teacher,” I whisper.

“Some people are into that,” Jean reasons. He grins at me when my eyes narrow at him. And then he kisses me, brief and light, before he climbs out of bed. 

“I’m going,” he says, yanking a towel from the closet. “I’m going. Our wedding pictures are still salvageable.” 

“Thank you. I love you,” I say as he goes into the bathroom.

“Yeah, yeah, I lo--” and then Jean’s voice stops halfway through the word.

And I remember.

And I know exactly what he’s staring at in the bathroom.

And I’m trying my hardest not to burst out laughing.

And I can practically see his face turning red with anger when Jean says slowly, “There’s a fucking picture of fucking Tom Selleck taped to the fucking mirror.”


	2. Best Day of My Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just two nerds gettin' hitched.

Let me tell you my favourite parts of my wedding day. It’s been a long time, but I still remember these moments. I hold onto them.

 

*

Ten minutes before the ceremony.

When I should have been prepping, or memorizing my vows, or doing shots. But no, I was standing in Sasha and Connie’s hallway, trying to break their bedroom door down.

“Nope,” said Marco, his voice muffled through the door. “Nuh-uh.”

I was going nuts. I hadn’t seen him all day -- he’d left that morning before my alarm even went off, took his dress shoes and everything. He was actually holding true to the idea of getting bad luck if you saw each other before the wedding, and I was about to rip that door right off his hinges.

I’d spent enough of my life away from him. I didn’t need to spend any more of it like that. 

I told him so, slouching against the wall outside the master bedroom and not caring if my dress blues got wrinkled.

“That’s really romantic,” Marco said from the other side of the door. “But it’s still not gonna get you anywhere.”

I fought the urge to run my hand through my hair; Sasha had spent so much goddamned time slicking it back for me. 

“Marc...” I growled.

“Nope.” His voice was warm with laughter, and it made me light-headed. The nerves and the happiness and the goddamned anticipation, and his laugh, and wanting to get the ceremony over with just so I could see him...

I was a mess that day. In the best goddamned way, but still a mess.

I nudged the door with the toe of my shoe. “Come on, you nerd.”

“The ceremony is in ten minutes,” Marco soothed. “Just wait, baby.”

“I need to see you now.”

“Do you really think we can risk any more bad luck?”

“We’ve racked up a shitload of good karma,” I reasoned, leaning my forehead on the door. “We could have sex right now, and still go down that aisle scot-free.”

Marco snorted. “I knew you had ulterior motives.”

“No, I just--” I hesitated. I mean, if he was offering...

“Uh-huh. I’m wearing my tux, you know.”

Oh god. That tux he’d brought home perfectly tailored a few weeks ago. I’d been staring at that thing in the closet and fucking slobbering.

I jiggled the doorknob violent in the door. “You let me in right fuckin’ now--”

Marco laughed. He pressed his weight on the door to keep it closed.

“Ten minutes,” he insisted. “No, nine minutes now.”

“Open the door, punk.”

“Eight minutes.”

“Sweetheart...” I murmured.

“Buttering me up isn’t gonna work, Jean Kirschtein.”

“Kirschtein-Bodt,” I reminded him.

Marco’s voice softened. “Yeah... In seven minutes.”

We were quiet for a minute. The light was streaming in that gold colour that we loved as the afternoon faded, the sun sinking so quick the way it does in the autumn. I could hear the voices of the fifty or so people hanging around the huge garden outside buzzing in my ears. They were waiting for the ceremony to start.

Suddenly, anxiety was tightening in my chest.

And somehow, he knew.

“Don’t be nervous,” Marco said quietly through the door. 

“I just don’t want to screw my vows up,” I admitted after a long moment.

“You better screw them up,” he said. “Then I’ll know it’s real, and I’ll know it’s you, and it’s not just a dream or something.”

I knew exactly what he meant.

“Ok dude--” I jiggled the door knob again. “You don’t get to say things like that and then not let me kiss you.”

Marco sighed deeply from the other side of the door. “Close your eyes.”

“What-- Really?”

“Close ‘em, jerk.”

I squeezed them shut tight immediately, stepping back from the door. When the lock gave and the door opened slow and loud on its old hinges, I almost looked-- but Marco’s hand was there before I had the chance, covering my eyes with his long fingers and making sure I didn’t peek. 

And then his other one was tipping my chin up, and he kissed me.

And for a minute, my heart was calm.

I couldn’t see him, but I could feel him; I wrapped my arms around Marco’s waist, rubbing his back and feeling the heat of his skin through the silky dress shirt. I kept leaning forward into him, kissing him blindly and badly. It made Marco laugh.

“Mm-- you look--” he tried to speak between kisses, “-- so hot in-- mmm... in your uniform. Yes.”

“So you get to see, and I don’t?” I grumbled, nuzzling his neck.

To be honest, just being this close to him was enough.

Marco shivered when I kissed under his jaw. “Take what-- ugh, what you can get.”

This was a good point. I kissed his neck.

Marco’s fingers grazed along my cheek, this thumb tracing my lips. “You should go, baby.”

“One more,” I mumbled into his skin.

He sighed heavily. “Needy. Needy husband. It’s a good thing you’re so goddamned handsome.” Marco’s fingers slid away from my eyes so he could cradle my face in both hands. I kept my eyes closed even though I could have peeked, because he asked me to.

Marco kissed me, and smiled against my lips. And then he was slipping out of my grip, saying goodbye and letting his fingertips trail away from mine until he had to let go. Then the bedroom door closed again.

 

*

The first time I got to see Marco that day.

I was glad that he made me wait. I was glad that we stood at the top of Connie’s open gorgeous yard at the edge of the woods, and the sun was going down. I was glad that my brother Emile stood next to me, silent and facing the Justice of the Peace with me.

I was glad that it was Armin, Marco’s best man, who grinned at me from his spot opposite me and nodded his head toward the aisle. 

Because the music changed, and the light changed, and I turned around, and my heart was in my throat.

God, Marco.

He just had that smile on as he came towards me. The calm one, tender and warm and just for me. Christ, he was so handsome in his tuxedo, and his mom hung proudly off his arm, smiling at me, too. 

I just remember being overwhelmed. Feeling so many things, and at the same time, feeling just... relieved.

We were doing this. It was happening. 

And then Marco was standing in front of me, and his mom hugged me tight, and then it was me and him. We were surrounded by our friends and family and the Justice officiating the ceremony, but for a minute it was just us. 

We looked at each other. I remember that moment. Marco and me. He bit his lip to keep from smiling so much. My face was hurting from grinning like an idiot -- he was just so beautiful, those whiskey eyes wide and warm and nervous and never leaving my face, and for a second I couldn’t catch my breath.

And then Marco took my hands, and the Justice started speaking. 

Marco squeezed my fingers, and I squeezed back.

 

*

The vows. I remember that. Even though I barely got through them.

You’d think a guy who does what I do for a living would be able to control himself. Get through a couple of sappy lines about marriage and commitment that the Justice had to say to every couple he married in Vermont. 

I just... I couldn’t take my eyes off Marco.

I had to keep letting go of his hands so I could wipe my eyes. 

Yeah, ok, I cried, but Marco was crying, too.

Disregard the fact that Marco cries over good movies and sad commercials.

When we got to the vows part, I remember my heart rate picking up fast. I’d been terrified in the few weeks before that I would completely blank out when that moment came. But when the Justice looked at me, I grew calm. I remembered them. Even if I didn’t, I would have still looked at Marco and known what I wanted to say.

The problem wasn’t the vows, the problem was that when I opened my mouth to speak, my voice cracked from the nerves and the crying. 

Everyone laughed when I cleared my throat, and my face went bright red, but Marco laughed too. He brought my hand up to his mouth and kissed my fingers.

I swallowed hard, smiled slightly, and started again. “I... Sorry, I, uh... Marco... Sweetheart, you are the reason I’m here today. You are the reason that I’m strong...” I wiped my face and let out a shaky breath. “You are the bravest. The kindest. You accept me. You understand me, and you love me even when I don’t know how to. Marco, I... I promise you my life. I promise you my support and my encouragement. My love. My protection. My honor. I promise you that we will always figure it out. I promise that it will always be you and me. You’re the love of my life, and I am yours today, I am yours every day, and I am yours forever.”

Marco had been watching me the entire time I choked my way through my vows, but when I finished and it was his turn, he lowered his eyes and stared at our hands. I watched him take a deep, shaky breath. When he looked back up at me, he smiled, but his cheeks were wet.

I didn’t hesitate. I let go of his hands and wiped the tears away with both my thumbs, cradling his face in my hands. I kissed his cheek, and Marco held onto me for a second and let out the breath he’d been holding, and he held on --

Until Reiner called from his seat in the crowd, “you’re supposed to wait, bro.”

Marco laughed, along with everyone else, and when I stepped back and took his hands again, he seemed ok. Marco squeezed my hands, took another deep breath, and when he spoke, his voice was steady.

“Jean.” Marco smiled. “My baby. My heart. We survive things that would break anyone else. We’re stronger because of it. And we don’t just survive anymore, we live, and I promise you that. I promise you that we’ll live, and I will love you. Through everything, through good days and bad. I promise you laughter, I promise you communication, I promise you endless support. I promise you my trust and my love. I promise to be there for you when you’re happy and when you’re scared. I have always been yours, from the first day I met you, but today, I am yours -- today, every day, and forever.”

The rings came after that, and more words, but I don’t really remember those.

I was just so impatient. Dry-eyed once Marco finished. I was just waiting.

Waiting for the moment when the Justice pronounced us married, and I got to kiss him.

Marco was biting his lip again, beaming at me, and when the Justice said it -- called him my husband, and me his -- he kissed me soft and slow. The way I loved it, the way he always did, ever since we met.

Except it was different. Because we weren’t young and scared and sitting on our friend’s bed, hiding it from everyone.

We were married, and the crowd before us -- Marco’s whole family, our friends from college and from New York, most of the guys on my force, my brothers, Emile beside me and Ollie with his wife and daughter in the front row --

They cheered. 

 

*

The car ride from Sasha and Connie’s to the inn at the edge of the town for the reception. 

Sasha had suggested that we get a limo for this, and you can just add that to the list of things we owe Sasha for.

We couldn’t keep our hands off each other.

Marco loved my dress blues, but he loved them even more when he was running his hands over my chest under the jacket, peeling it off and tossing it on the floor. He kissed my neck while I undid his bow-tie and forced his tuxedo jacket back off his shoulders; while I kissed him, he shoved the sleeves of his collared shirt up to both elbows, baring the flower tattoos that wound from his left wrist to his elbow. Sunflowers and a purple vining plant with blossoms that looked like bells, small blue flowers, and more flowers that he’d been adding on every so often since we’d gotten engaged. He got another flower every time I went to get more color work on the phoenix tattoo on my right shoulder blade; we sat in the tattoo shop together.

And we sat there in the back of that limo together, out of breath from kissing, nothing but crumpled ties and messy hair and holding onto each other, staying still for a minute and just looking at each other.

“Holy fuck,” I said after a while.

Marco nodded, his eyes wide.

I grinned at him. “Congratulations, Mr. Kirschtein-Bodt.”

Marco stroked my hair back into place and smiled. “You too, Mr. Kirschtein-Bodt. Hey, this is gonna sound weird.”

“What?”

“Is it just me, or do we have the same last name?”

I don’t remember much else except for me threatening to dump his ass for the corny jokes, the way he couldn’t stop smiling long enough to kiss me, and trying desperately to pretend we hadn’t been making out when we got out of the car.

 

*

Walking into that reception.

There were more people there, more of my family -- the ones who had agreed to come, but didn’t bother with the ceremony. My mother and father sat at a table with some of Marco’s aunts and cousins. Their spot at the long table where Marco and I were sitting had been taken by Sasha and Connie. I just remember looking at them, at Sasha trying to use her pregnancy as an excuse to get in on the food earlier and my godson Henry in Connie’s lap, slouched and asleep against his chest. And I remember thinking, this is who my family is.

Marco and I left our jackets in the lobby of the inn; we were spending the night there anyway, so the front desk guy didn’t mind. Marco rolled his sleeves up properly and tried to fix his hair the way he’d had it, but I messed it up anyway. I liked him scruffy. I liked him any way, but I wanted this to be relaxed. I just wanted my man. 

And then we were holding each other’s hands, hovering outside the doorway of the main room of the reception until we were announced, and we walked into that room full of my friends and family and colleagues. And I got introduced with my husband.

I stood in front of everyone in a way that I’d been mortally afraid to ever think about doing for so many goddamned years. I stood there, my heart pounding in my chest, and Marco squeezed my hand and led me to the table.

And I was ok.

 

*

The speeches.

Connie went first. I’d chosen my brother as a best man, but Connie was my usher, and pretty much the equivalent. He was my best bro, and when he got up with his glass of champagne, he was already half-buzzed. He grinned at us and said simply, in that way he did, that it made total sense to him. Having a part of his family get married at his house. Some more sappy shit that ended with Sasha smacking a hand to her forehead.

Armin went next. He addressed Marco more than me, but that was understandable; I’d held Armin as far away as possible in college because he was so observant. He understood people. And when he talked about how Marco always had a smile for everyone, he understood that, too. It was only ever obvious to the people who knew Marco well when he meant a smile or not. And, Armin said, he’d only ever seen Marco smile this proudly twice. The first time, in the beginning of their sophomore year of college, when he walked in on Marco talking to his new roommate at the pizza place. And the second time, on our wedding day.

My brother went next. 

When Emile stood up, he didn’t have anything in his hand but a glass of champagne. He didn’t need an index card or a checklist, public speaking went hand-in-hand with his job. 

But when he looked at me, the microphone in his hand, I watched my big brother draw a complete blank. His eyes, the same colour as mine, went wide.

Emile swallowed hard. “Jean...”

I opened my mouth -- I was going to tell him that he didn’t have to do it if he didn’t want to. That everything he’d done for me was enough.

Emile was the first one in my family who reached out to me after all the shit went down with the shooting. He was the first one to come see me in Vermont. He was the first one to meet Marco, the first one to really meet him, to sit down and eat dinner with us and love him. He was the first one to apologize to me. For everything.

Just him being there with me would have been enough.

But Emile held up his hand to shush me, and started again.

“Jean,” he said steadily, “I’m gonna talk to Marco first. Because Marco, God bless you for putting up with his bullshit. He’s going to yell about dumb stuff, and he’s going to surprise the hell out of you, and he’s going to leave all his stuff lying around the house like he did when he was little. But he’s gonna change your life, and he’s gonna change it for the better, and I just hope you know what you’re signing up for.”

“I have an idea,” Marco said with a laugh.

Emile grinned at him. Then he looked at me, and I saw him falter again.

He wasn’t nervous. He was just choked up.

“Jean,” he said quietly. “You’re my little brother, and I love you. And I’m supposed to be the one who protects you, and makes sure you’re alright, and teaches you stuff. And you... You’ve done that for me time and again, Jay. I know you don’t need protection anymore. And I know that you’re going to be alright, because you have found someone who really loves you. You found happiness that I have never seen from you before. You have taught me more than I could ever hope to teach you, and I am so fucking proud of you. I am so fucking proud to be your brother, and I am so proud to get the chance to watch you be who you are. As a Kirschtein, that’s all the emotion I’m allowed to show in one sitting, so...” Emile laughed. “Marco-- welcome, brother.”

He made his toast and sat down; I drank too it, but my throat was thick. The rest of the room had started to eat, but Marco was watching me. He leaned over and put his hand on my thigh.

“Are you ok?” he whispered in my ear.

I glanced up at him, nodding and biting my lip... And then I stood up.

I went over to where Emile was sitting at the end of the table, and I pulled him out of his chair; when he stood up, I hugged him hard. One of those good solid masculine hugs, with back slapping.

But I heard the shaky breath my brother let out when he hugged me back.

I let him go, and he called me a loser and I told him to choke on his steak, and when I got back to my seat, I kissed the top of Marco’s head before I sat down again.

 

*

The fucking wedding cake.

Or more specifically, me being blindsided by that big freckled idiot.

I was going to go at it all gently and romantic and shit, I was respecting Marco and fed him the cake nicely--

And Marco smushed it all over my face.

I couldn’t see him because of the half-smushed sugar rose all up in my goddamned vision, but I could hear him laughing as he ran away and I sprinted after him.

 

*

Our first dance.

Marco chose the song. I was ok with it; he’s always had better taste in music than me. It was this acoustic cover of 500 Miles, that cheesy eighties song. Except it was perfect, and as dumb as I felt dancing in front of everyone, it was ok.

It was more than ok. 

All I wanted to do was hold onto him like that.

“You wanna go high school, sir?” Marco asked teasingly, his arms sliding around my neck.

I held him to me by my hands on his waist. “Unless you know how to salsa.”

Marco laughed softly in my ear. “When was the last time we danced like this?”

“You mean not head-banging to ‘Pour Some Sugar On Me’?”

“Yeah. Actual dancing.”

I thought about it as we moved slowly on the dance floor to the beat of the song. 

“Last time we danced like this,” I murmured, “was my hospital room.”

Because it was true. That was the last time we danced seriously.

Marco nuzzled his forehead into the side of mine as his reply.

There was a steady stream of more people onto the dance floor, and suddenly we weren’t alone... But we still were.

For a moment, we were back there in that room. And I was shaking in his arms, my legs weak and stiff and hurting so bad, but Marco was holding me up and encouraging me, and that was the moment. That was when we really started being together. The moment when I didn’t let anything keep me away from him. 

Not gunshot wounds. Not pain. Not fear. Not insecurity. Not pressure from my family. Nothing.

Nothing could keep me away from him.

Marco kissed my cheek. “What are you thinking about, husband of mine?”

“How I’m gonna tear those pants off of you with my teeth later.”

“Oh, good. Me too.”

We both snorted trying to stifle our laughter, because less than two seconds later, Marco’s tiny Italian grandmother waltzed by. She made impressed noises at Marco’s tattoos, she ran her thin hands across the muscle of my arm in appreciation while she talked to me, and all I could do was hold him and laugh.

 

*

There were other moments.

When my family left, and even though my mother was stiff, my dad gave me a hug and said, very quietly, that he was proud.

When Marco’s family left for the night, and his mom yanked me down to her height and kissed me on the cheek four or five times.

When Sasha left with Henry, and she said to me, “if you had told me five years ago, Macho Man...” And then she kissed my cheek and left smiling, her son slumped over her shoulder. 

When it was just us left -- our friends from college, the guys on the force, and some of Marco’s cousins -- and we were just fucking around, drinking a lot, and dancing to shitty music until like two in the morning.

When we left the party going by itself, and me and Marco went and got our room key. 

When it was just me and him in the biggest suite in the inn, and for a minute --

For a minute, before he was kissing me like crazy. Before he was undoing the buttons on my shirt.

Before we spent our first night together married.

Before we started the rest of our lives together.

For a minute, we just looked at each other.

And Marco smiled at me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now go listen to "Best Day of My Life" by American Authors because jdhfkshsdkhfks
> 
> thank you for reading <333

**Author's Note:**

> this is the dumbest thing i have ever written and i hope you all like it because STACHES
> 
> happy red beanie tuesday noodles


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